


1. masks

by fall_into_life



Series: Kinktober 2018 [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Identity Kink, Nonbinary Character, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 21:50:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16183874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fall_into_life/pseuds/fall_into_life
Summary: Weiss Schnee, Ice Queen, throws a Midwinter ball. She expects revelry, drunkeness, and several attempts for her hand. She does not expect a beautiful stranger to capture her interest.Written for Kinktober prompt 1: masks.





	1. masks

**Author's Note:**

> The regularly scheduled Beacon U and Enter The Dragon updates will be intermittently disrupted while I work through Kinktober prompts. Sorry!

It is well known throughout the lands that Queen Weiss Schnee cares little for revelry.

Her younger brother, Lord Whitley Schnee, uses any excuse he can find to celebrate, but aside from making a token appearance at namedays and the high holidays, Weiss spends more time in breeches than dresses.

The sole exception she makes is for the Midwinter Ball.

At Midwinter, Weiss is at the height of her power, her magics coming to her far more easily than breathing. Not that she would ever admit such to another living being, but being at her height results in a unique euphoria that makes it far easier to tolerate courtly intrigues.

It is her eighth winter as Queen, after two years training under her sister's regency, and before that sixteen seething years of watching her father ruin their family name. The road has been long, hard, and treacherous, but she's forced her nobility into some form of order, and regained a measure of trust from the common people. She would hardly say she can fully relax this Midwinter, but with her siblings' watchful eyes at her back, she can at least be confident in not having to draw her sword. Or, gods forbid, call upon her magics.

Atlas has always considered itself a hub of progress, and nowhere is this more evident than in the capital. The more progressive of her nobles wear synthetic fabrics, and even the more conservative do not shy away from prosthetics. General Ironwood, ever on the cutting edge, is surely made of more metal than meat, and even Winter has three replacement fingers on one hand. Weiss herself has thankfully avoided any such needs, but her dress incorporates artificial silks, and patterns of ice Dust woven throughout.

This year Whitley begged her to allow him a masquerade ball, and she'd given in with some reluctance. For all that she trusts him, she's never sure which of his apparent whims are from Whitley the spymaster, and which are from Whitley the dramatic spoiled nobleman. She has to admit, however, if only in the privacy of her own mind, that the results are spectacular.

Nobles and merchants alike come from the farthest reaches of their world to attend Atlas' Midwinter Ball, and jump at the chance to represent their homeland or interest. Here, a woman whose suit shimmers with rippling Dust patterns. There, a man wearing little more than the bare minimum to appease propriety, his grinning-ape mask exquisitely wrought. Weiss' tastes in _decoration_ vary, but there is something for everyone here tonight.

Weiss opens the dancing, of course, first with her siblings, and then with a handful of cousins too closely related to have serious designs on her hand in marriage. Every time she thinks she's made herself quite clear on the notion of marrying - that is, that she has no intent on making anything less than a full love match, after a lengthy courtship - some lord or lady shows themselves to believe they must be the exception. As if Weiss has any need of more wealth, or any stronger political connections than her own name as Queen. If she does not find a spouse who wishes children, she'll simply name one of Winter's children her heir. Somehow, this is unthinkable to her court, despite having lengthy historical and legal precedent.

Shaking off the heavy thoughts, Weiss allows herself to ride the euphoria of her magic sparking under her skin, looking for a dance partner she may actually enjoy taking onto the floor, who she isn't related to.

Her sister's wife, a tribeswoman from the far east, leans into Weiss' ear. "If you're looking for a pleasant sight, turn towards the west."

Weiss makes a show of rolling her eyes, but they both know Weiss indulges Yang almost as much as Winter does.

She looks towards the west, and is promptly very glad for two decades' worth of combat and magical training contributing to her discipline. Even so, had she been holding a drink, it may have gone poorly.

Standing just outside one of the many hidden nooks in the ballroom, speaking with the grinning-ape Vacuo man, is a lean, muscular noble dressed in the deepest black, with a panther half-mask obscuring their face. Their suit is tailored exquisitely, doing far more than simply hint at the musculature beneath. They carry a slim sword at their side, proof that Whitley investigated them and found them worthy of carrying a simple blade here. The planes of their face reflect less of the light than they should, showing a subtle command of magic that has Weiss' attention almost more than the grace of their movements. She is not at all ashamed of the way her mouth goes dry. Very aware of it, perhaps, but certainly not ashamed.

"Queen's privilege, of course," Yang says with a sly grin, "but if they haven't your interest, they certainly have mine."

Weiss slaps the back of her hand against Yang's shoulder, raising an eyebrow. She's quite aware that her sister and her wife have a somewhat unconventional idea of _fidelity_ , but she couldn't possibly want to hear about it less. "Go harass your sister." Ruby, wolfhound that she is, rarely comes to court, and Yang rarely leaves it.

Yang's face softens. "I _am_ harassing my sister."

Weiss sends Yang off with a fond smile and gentle fingers in the small of her back. Just when she's willing to write Yang off as incorrigible, she says something impossibly sweet. Weiss quickly wipes the fondness off her face when she remembers she's still in the middle of her ballroom. Gods, she hopes that didn't make her look approachable.

Well, Weiss thinks, moving towards the panther-masked noble, perhaps approachable wouldn't be the worst thing to happen to her tonight.

Unsurprisingly, both nobles notice her immediately. They sweep into bows, the ape-mask noble making a full show of it.

"Your Majesty," they both murmur, the ape-mask noble with a grin, and the panther-mask noble with a solemn face.

Weiss tilts her head to acknowledge them. Normally she'd address them by title if nothing else, but a masquerade ball makes that impossible. Her own mask is only a slip of a thing, a nod to the tradition, but if she's seen either of these two before it was surely long ago. She would remember.

"Don't forget our talk, Lord Panther," the ape-masked noble says, sly. Weiss thinks he might get along with Yang, if the mischief in his sky-blue eyes is any indication. "By your leave, Your Majesty."

She flicks her fingers to release him, leaving them as alone as they can be in a ballroom full of people.

"Queen Schnee." Their voice is... well. Weiss is now even more certain that she has never met them before in her life. She would remember that voice, the rumble in the deepest reaches of it.

"Shall I call you Lord Panther?" she asks, keeping a straight face. She is unsure if the ape-masked noble meant it as a jest, but the conventions of a masquerade ball means she could indeed call this beautiful noble by that name. If they are amenable, of course.

"It will do," they say, the hint of laughter in their voice.

Weiss means to keep up the banter, to possibly tease at least an origin out of the noble, only to spot Ozpin coming towards her. Vale's Court Magician isn't actively unpleasant company so much as he is frustrating; the man speaks in riddles and seems to see nothing wrong with that. Midwinter euphoria or not, Weiss has no desire to be trapped in a conversation with him.

"Do you dance?" Weiss asks, after a second's pause to make sure the music can indeed be danced to.

The noble chuckles. "I do."

Weiss tilts her head towards the dance floor, and the two of them make their way toward it.

Most people let her lead. She is, after all, the Queen, and any regular visitor to the court knows she has little patience for challenges to her authority. Yet when she stands in such a way that leaves her preferences ambiguous, the panther-masked noble gracefully steps into the lead.

To escape Ozpin's cryptic riddles - and the stench of alcohol that will accompany his lover, Sir Qrow - Weiss would put up with quite a lot of awful dancing. So long as her toes were not directly stepped upon, it could not be worse than an hour of parables with a condescending adviser not even of her court. Thankfully for her toes - and her patience - her partner is an excellent dancer.

Weiss rarely grants two dances in a row to anyone not of her blood, but when the panther-masked noble inclines their head, she nods in response and lets herself be led not once more, but twice.

At the end of their third dance, Weiss can feel the flush in her cheeks, the thrill that matches the magic thrumming in her blood. It has been a long time since she trusted anyone new to lead her, and the heady feeling of being matched sings in her bones. Weiss much prefers a gymnasium to a studio, but she went through the same years of dance training as any Schnee. It is rare and then some to find someone who can keep up, let alone match her entirely.

"Step outside with me," Weiss says. It's not quite a question, but she hopes the noble will understand that it isn't a command. Not one from Queen Schnee, at least.

The noble smiles, and gestures for her to lead the way.

Schnee Castle employs a legion of groundskeepers, all working under Whitley's exacting specifications to make the immediate environs both beautiful and confusing. He cites operational security as to why he wants the twists and turns of the grounds, but Weiss wouldn't rule out sadism; there's a certain twist to his lips whenever one of the court complains about being lost. It is beautiful regardless, though new members of the court must be cautioned not to wander.

Weiss personally has little input on the design other than to occasionally comment on something particularly well-done or something she absolutely will not tolerate. Nonetheless, she knows the pathways fairly well from a lifetime of wandering them, and leads her companion down one of the lesser-used paths.

"Your lord of the grounds is certainly open-minded," the noble comments dryly, gazing up at a statue of three knights dancing close together.

"That would be my brother's influence," Weiss says, "he feels it his duty to normalize polyamorous relationships."

Her companion glances over, curiosity writ on their face. "He prefers multiple partners?"

Weiss shakes her head, allowing herself a slight smile. "He prefers no committments at all. There is, however, a history of polyamory in the Schnee line."

Earlier in her reign, a comment such as that may have caused a headache of a scandal. Now, Weiss hardly worries about it. Even if she's completely misread the panther-masked noble and they are secretly a member of the press (which she doubts, given that Whitley would have done an exhaustive background check on anyone he allowed to wear a sword here), the press isn't at her throat to nearly the degree they once were. She's proven herself, and anyway the Schnee tendency towards polyamory is hardly a secret, it simply isn't currently in the public awareness.

They continue along their walk, and Weiss raises an eyebrow at her companion. "Do you disapprove, Lord Panther?"

That gets her a sideways look, amusement dancing in golden eyes. "I prefer to avoid hypocrisy."

Weiss laughs, open and genuinely amused. "A sensible frame of mind."

Weiss brings them to a small alcove, far from prying eyes, and leans against the wall there. She makes no secret of where her gaze lingers on the lines of their muscular body. She won't be the one to initiate anything physical, should it happen; consent is tricky when you hold as much authority as she does. She doubts that they would have come with her all this way simply to have a private conversation, but for both their sakes, Weiss needs to leave that as an option. She's taking risks enough by being alone with a beautiful stranger.

The noble leans in, resting their weight on one forearm braced above her head. Weiss looks up at the noble through her eyelashes, studying what she can of a face purposely obscured by subtly shifting shadows. Outside of the castle proper, she can feel even more of the frost pumping through her veins, calling to her. The gardens are kept at a sociable temperature, and she can feel heat radiating off of her companion, but nothing before has managed to melt the ice inside her, and now will not be the exception. She curls her hands into fists, holding onto control.

"I can't decide if you're overconfident or not," her companion breathes, their eyes holding hers. "What if I were an assassin, Queen Schnee?"

Another night she might call this to a halt, might signal for her guards, but tonight she laughs.

"You would be dead before you took hold of your weapon," Weiss says bluntly, "it would take an idiot of an assassin to try killing the Winter Queen on Midwinter Night."

Tonight, of all nights, she cannot die. Weiss has made her sacrifices, carved ice into her soul and bones. Any other night she is merely a woman, if a powerful one. Tonight, she is as a god walking the earth.

"I can feel," Weiss says, when the noble doesn't reply, "every ice crystal for miles. Every mote of ice Dust, every ice mage, every icicle and snowflake. Winter herself would rip the marrow from your bones if you dared lay a hand on me." She does not mean her sister, and doesn't think for an instant the noble has misunderstood her.

They search her eyes, breath fogging the space between them. Weiss' breath does not create fog. It never does.

"A hand," the noble says, voice dropping into a rumble, " _anywhere_ on you?"

Weiss leans up, until their mouths very nearly touch. "Do you dare find out?"

The noble growls, and crushes their lips together.

The dance earlier was control: every motion perfectly timed, every step in sync, emotions hidden behind masks both tangible and not. The kiss is passion, barely restrained. Heat and pressure and presence, both of them striving for dominance.

By the time they part she's panting, skin flushed and attention solely on her companion. At some point her hands came to rest on their chest, and theirs on her neck. She can feel every point of contact as a pinprick of heat, making her shiver in the night air.

"My chambers," she manages, "tonight."

"What will you tell your guard?" They purr, mouth only a breath away from hers.

"What manner of assassin couldn't slip through without alerting them?" Weiss opens her eyes, curling her fingers into the front of their jacket.

They chuckle, lips grazing hers. "Perhaps the same idiot of an assassin willing to lay a hand on the Winter Queen on Midwinter Night?"

Weiss takes a moment to breathe through the chemicals running in her veins, though she doesn't move to part from her companion. "You've done a very poor job laying hands upon me."

"Then perhaps I should try again tonight, after I avoid your guard and enter your chambers."

There are many, many responses that go through Weiss' mind. None of them are appropriate. She swallows down desire and forces herself to drop her hands.

"Perhaps you should." It's a promise, and she doesn't bother pretending otherwise.

"I will," they say, and it takes every piece of Weiss' self-control not to pull them back down into a heated kiss.

By silent mutual agreement, they leave separately. Weiss takes the long route, letting the night air clear her mind.

By many standards, she absolutely should not be doing this. If the panther-masked noble can get into her chambers without alerting her guard, it says very unflattering things about her security. If they cannot, then the mere act of trying could cause an international incident. Even assuming they have no intent other than mutual pleasure, there are more risks here than she wishes to speculate upon. Weiss should care. 

And yet, she absolutely does not care. Perhaps her sister-in-law has finally influenced her, perhaps she's a touch too in tune with the Midwinter euphoria, but she cares not nearly enough to stop herself from doing this. She wants breath and skin and _pleasure_ , wants to explore the body underneath that exquisitely-tailored suit. She wants their mouth upon her. She _wants_.

The rest of the night passes surprisingly swiftly, considering what awaits her at the end of it. Weiss mainly keeps company with Winter and Yang, occasionally letting herself be drawn into conversation with this baron or that knight. She catches the panther-masked noble's eyes twice more, each time sending a searing bolt down her spine. If Winter notices her preoccupation, she doesn't say a word, but Yang's eyes turn sly from time to time. Weiss steadfastly ignores her. Who she has in her bed is no business of her sister-in-law's.

At the stroke of midnight, the ball is called to an end. There are other engagements throughout Vale that continue on from this point, but the royal Midwinter Ball stops during the darkest point of the night.

Weiss says her goodbyes and sweeps away to her room. She changes into breeches and a long shirt rather than daring to wear her nightgown; Weiss Schnee does not sleep on Midwinter night, and if her expected companion fails to come, she'll take out her frustrations on the training grounds. If not, she doubts a sword-trained noble will be put off by stripping her out of more practical clothing.

Bare minutes after she's changed, the shadows in her room ripple, and out steps the panther-masked noble. They wear the same suit from before - mask included - with the only exception being that their coat lies unbuttoned, exposing the undershirt beneath.

"I wondered if you would come," Weiss says, putting away her concerns about security. They'll keep until the morning.

"I always keep my word, Your Majesty," they say, holding perfectly still.

"If you've come to lay hands upon me," Weiss murmurs, taking one step towards them, then two, "I must insist you not call me such."

"What would you have me call you?" They meet her in the middle of the room, one hand coming up to cup her cheek.

Weiss nearly loses her words in the wake of the hunger that follows. She wants in ways she's become unaccustomed to, wants to touch and to taste and to feel. A large part of it is the Midwinter euphoria, but she also wants this noble for themself, for their grace and barbed humor and the honed body she knows lies underneath those clothes. She knows how to deal with Midwinter. This is different entirely.

"Weiss," she says simply. "Although I suspect you'd have me use 'Lord Panther'." Weiss reaches up to touch the mask the noble still wears, making no motion to remove it.

"It will do," they say, echoing their words from earlier. They step back with visible effort, taking a deep breath. "Though you may not wish to call me anything at all, in a moment."

Weiss tilts her head. The thought runs through her mind that they may indeed be here to kill her, but it's hard to care. They'll fail, Whitley will ruin whoever sent them, and Weiss will vet her lovers more carefully in the future. Having functional immortality for a night makes a great many concerns less urgent.

The shadows ripple over them again, revealing a pair of secondary ears on top of their head. The shadows pull away from their face, showing features too sharp to be entirely human. A faunus, then.

"There is a difference," they say evenly, "between not knowing the exact identity of your bedmate, and finding later you would not have consented at all."

Weiss steps back into their space, lifting her hands to hook fingers into their collar. "I appreciate your honesty, but I see nothing that makes me desire you less." She pulls them down, mouth hovering just below theirs. "Now, unless you wish to reveal something genuinely repulsive, or have changed your mind about an assassination, I would very much like to bed you."

They claim her mouth with a hungry moan. Weiss presses into them, opening her mouth under theirs and gasping at the force of her own desire.

Step by step, they move towards Weiss' bed, the backs of her knees hitting the mattress. She pulls the noble on top of her, moving back towards the headboard. They move with her, claiming her mouth again and again, letting out small noises that make Weiss' skin heat. She digs her fingers into their back, pushing up and underneath the coat.

"What do you want, Weiss?" they murmur against her mouth, hands braced on either side of her head. "Tell me."

"Your hands," Weiss pants, "give me your hands."

They reach between her legs, cupping her through her breeches. Weiss throws her head back, moaning.

"Here?" They drop their head, mouth hot against her neck. Weiss nods frantically, hands moving to push their coat off of their shoulders.

Their coat gets thrown off the side of the bed, followed quickly by Weiss' shirt. It looks as though her bra is going to follow, only for the noble to push it up and out of the way instead, dropping their head to suck roughly at her nipples. She cries out, threading her fingers into their hair and holding on for dear life.

The noble rips open her breeches, buttons scattering without notice from either of them, and pull them off throwing them onto the floor.

"I'd like to touch you, Your Majesty," they say, fingers splayed out over her hip, "but I haven't a sheath."

Weiss tries to catch her breath, to parse what they're saying, but all that comes to mind is: "I requested you not call me that."

"Fine then," they move upward to growl into her ear, falling easily into the common parlance, "I want to fuck you, _Weiss_ , so tell me where your gloves are."

"Nightstand," Weiss gasps, before her brain can catch up to her not enjoying that sort of talk. Tonight - or perhaps just with this person - it is enjoyable.

They lean over her and reach into the nightstand drawer. Weiss bites into their shoulder, pushing their undershirt up their stomach. Her questing fingers find a binder, and she murmurs, "On or off?"

"On," they reply, finding a glove and pulling it on.

Weiss manages to get their undershirt off before they nudge her onto her back once more and reach between her legs.

From the first touch, she's clutching their shoulders, trying to keep her hips on the bed. She was very much correct about them being martially trained, their strong fingers working inside her. She rolls her body along to their rhythm, whispering a request for _more, harder_. A brief pause, then they deliver, slamming into her. Weiss is fairly certain she ends up screaming out her pleasure.

They keep touching her - _fucking her_ \- through her orgasm, breath hot against her neck. When Weiss finally stills their touch, she looks up to see a deep hunger in their golden eyes.

"What do you want from me?" Weiss asks, watching them pull off the glove and toss it into her bedside garbage.

"You needn't worry," they say, laying on their side and propping up their head with an elbow.

Weiss rolls her eyes and reaches up to pluck off the mask, finished with the game. "I can feel your arousal against my thigh, Lord Belladonna, and I would like to pleasure you. If you don't wish for my touch, say so."

Blake Belladonna stills, searching her face. "You knew."

"I suspected at the ball," Weiss says, not at all apologetic, "and knew for certain when you appeared in my chambers. There is only one shadow mage in the kingdoms strong enough to bypass them without breaking the entire lattice."

"And you still..." Their voice gives out on a breath.

Weiss smooths her palm down their stomach, squeezes their thigh, then cups between their legs when there's no sign of discomfort. "I would still enjoy pleasuring you, yes."

Golden eyes search hers. She doesn't know what Blake finds, but they lean over her again, retrieving a condom and pressing it into her hand. They unzip their trousers, shimmying them and their underwear down their slim hips. Weiss rolls the condom down the length of them, and begins stroking.

They take their pleasure quietly, in hushed breaths and bitten lips. Weiss keeps a steady pace, enjoying the little bolts of pleasure she herself gets from watching Blake. When they peak, it's with a long exhale, a shudder, and finally stillness as they catch their breath.

A short while later, once they're both bare of everything save the binder wrapped around Blake's chest, they watch her curiously.

"You've been... very relaxed about this, from the very beginning." They study her face for a moment. "How?"

Weiss shrugs, laying on her back. "When mortality isn't a concern, it is far more difficult to be concerned about assault."

Anyone else, she thinks, would have asked, or shown doubt. Instead, Blake says, "It isn't just the coldest night. It's the darkest, as well."

Weiss lets her eyes close. "When gods go to war, mortals suffer. You wouldn't allow it." Not that she would, either, but the Belladonna sense of honor is legendary. Different than the Atlesian concept of honor, certainly, but inflexible in its own way.

"We aren't gods."

Weiss laughs, still on the tail end of Midwinter euphoria, and with a pleasant orgasmic buzz as well. "Not any more."

Blake doesn't correct her. Weiss can still feel their gaze on her, but doesn't open her eyes.

"How do you know I won't try to kill you, now?" They rest a hand on her stomach. Whether it's a desire for contact, illustrating their point, or both, Weiss doesn't know.

"You wouldn't share pleasure and death on the same night without provocation."

"You don't know me."

It's a simple fact. Not defiance, not an argument, just something as true as the color of the sky.

Weiss finally opens her eyes, lets the ice flow through her and something inhuman show in her gaze. She's never dared reveal this part of her, knowing always that other mages, even masters, don't share the same attunement to their element. Blake doesn't so much as blink.

"I know that."

Blake, again, doesn't correct her. As much as there can be honor between gods, between a faunus and a member of a family known for hating them (past-tense, thank you), there is that.

"Now," Weiss rolls onto her side to face them, "would you like to debate? Or would you prefer to continue...?" She reaches into the space between them, almost touching.

Blake's eyes drop down to her hand, then back up. There's a hint of the hunger from before. "Continue?"

Weiss curls her fingers around Blake's hip. "Being mortals, instead of gods."

They laugh, disbelieving. "I've threatened to kill you how many times tonight?"

Weiss snorts. "None. If it were threat instead of theory, we would have destroyed the castle by now." She sits up, carefully sweeping her hair over one shoulder. It'll need more attention later, but for now she can twist it up and out of the way. "However, I won't pressure an unwilling partner. I trust you can leave the same way you entered?"

Blake presses against her back, mouth skimming over Weiss' shoulder. "I didn't say no."

Arching into the touch, Weiss lets her hands fall back down to the bed. "Then show me what you want."

Blake Belladonna doesn't leave the Queen's chambers until dawn pulls at the horizon. True to their word, they disappear back into the foreign delegation's quarters without incident.

It causes a murmur for the Queen to personally see off the Vacuo delegation, but no more than any of the other strange decisions during her reign, such as the push to pay faunus equal wages to humans. No one save the Queen's own Spymaster sees the small piece of paper that passes between them when she shakes hands with Lord Belladonna.

Vacuo-Atlas relations warm noticeably going forward.


End file.
